Many people, perhaps you, believe me to be anti-white.
(To the white supremacist world, a person like me is an abomination. Worse than being unfortunate enough to be born non-white. Rather, born white and then actively working to dismantle white supremacy and shed the mantle of oppressor. I’m the worst of the worst. A traitor.)
But, I’m not.
I’m firmly anti-racism.
Firmly anti- hypocrisy
Conversely, I’m doggedly pro-Truth.
One might justifiably retort, “Your truth.”
And mostly, one would be right.
Because facts are facts. Contrary to current popular, populist, and preposterous beliefs in a world where nothing seems to be as it seems and everything has become debatable…facts remain facts.
Now, it’s true that I often get facts mixed up with my analysis and opinion. (That thing against which I rail vehemently is the very thing I do. Geez. It sounds so damn trite. But True. I acknowledge this, and I’ll be actively working to spend more time honestly looking in the mirror, contemplating what I see, and making modifications where necessary, in the upcoming year.)
However, if recognizing the histories of the Black and Native experiences with European colonizers (i.e. our founding forefathers) in the United States is anti-white…and,
If acknowledging the lasting impact and current relevance of said histories is anti-white…
Then sure, I’m anti-white.
By that definition, but not my definition.
Anti white. Pro Truth.
My upbringing, travels, education, professional endeavors, and overall exposure have brought me lessons and given me glimpses into the experiences of oppressed and/or marginalized communities.
My personality is such that I feel, deeply, not only my feelings but the expressed feelings and oppressive experiences of others around me and many not anywhere near me. I absorb the psychic energy of the relationships, behaviors, and art with which I come into contact. I take shit personally. I agonize and worry and lose sleep at night over so…fucking…much.
So indeed, I’ll always travel with another’s reality, at least in part, as my own. For me, it’s impossible to walk the earth perfectly content when I know, I literally know, a Muslim woman, an American citizen, born and raised in NJ, is harassed daily through a relentless series of micro-aggressions and explicitly aggressive words.
When I literally see the way Black boys are treated in my neighborhood by older (my age and up) white male community leaders including coaches, cops, and “Christians.”
When I stare into the abyss of anonymous avatars and trolls and have to cleanse myself of the tsunami of pure, unfiltered hate and anger pouring out. (Most recently, I’ve been following a journalist on Twitter who received an anonymous video with a seizure-inducing strobe. The troll researched the journalist, found out he has epilepsy, and attacked in a very direct, malicious manner. The journalist, in fact, had a seizure and now has decided to turn the journalistic heat down as he pursues both legal and law enforcement support. However, trolls continue to send him embedded, hidden strobes.)
I’m not sure what I am. What I’m not.
But I know this, I’ll not rest easily until I’m certain that I’ve done all that I can to promote social justice, reparations, and basic, foundational human love. Active, works-based love.